SONG OF THE SOLDIERS

Another marching poem. Thomas Hardy knew that in 1914 England was right in standing up to the great power that tried to rule by war.

WHAT of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away

Ere the barn-cocks say

Night is growing gray,

To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away?

Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye
Who watch us stepping by,

With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye?

Nay. We see well what we are doing,
Though some may not see-
Dalliers as they be !-
England's need are we;

Her distress would set us rueing:

Nay. We see well what we are doing,
Though some may not see!

In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just,
And that braggarts must
Surely bite the dust,

March we to the field ungrieving,
In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just.

Hence the faith and fire within us
Men who march away

Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,

To hazards whence no tears can win us;
Hence the faith and fire within us

Men who march away.

THOMAS HARDY.

PRO REGE NOSTRO

Love of England, gratitude to one's country, is the happy duty of all of us. There is perhaps too much war and too much boasting in this resounding song. But it is a noble song, nevertheless, and the poet is ready, is eager, to do and suffer something for his England. How splendidly all the stanzas end! What a resounding note!

WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?

What is there I would not do,
England my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear,

As the song on your bugles blown,
England-

Round the world on your bugles blown !

Where shall the watchful sun,

England, my England,

Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the song on your bugles blown,
England-

Down the years on your bugles blown?

"

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England:

Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die

To the song on your bugles blown,
England-

To the stars on your bugles blown!"

Mother of ships whose might,
England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word

In the song on your bugles blown,
England-

Out of heaven on your bugles blown! WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

"OVER THE SEA TO SKYE"

Stevenson was great in poetry and prose. Rum, Mull, Eigg are the oddly-named islands off the Highland coast. Who would not set sail with that lad in the far-off sea, with a fresh wind, to such a poem ?

SING me a song of the lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?

Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.

Mull was astern, Rum on the port,
Eigg on the starboard bow;
Glory of youth glowed in his soul:
Where is that glory now?

Give me again all that was there.
Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that's gone!

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?

Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

AS HAPPY AS KINGS

THE world is so full of a number of things I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.